The Arbiter did not wage war with steel. He waged war with ledgers.
The sanctum of the Golden Citadel remained perfectly silent, the air humming exclusively with the sterile, golden light of ten thousand crystalline data-slates. The Arbiter stood at the absolute center of his massive, circular marble table, resting his hands lightly on the polished surface; he was not looking at troop deployments, nor was he reviewing aetheric artillery yields.
He was drafting a humanitarian relief package.
"Envoy Tarathel," the Arbiter spoke, his voice carrying the perfect, resonant acoustics of absolute law.
